


Press Play

by Fishwichformylove



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwichformylove/pseuds/Fishwichformylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America convinces England to make a dirty video for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Press Play

**Author's Note:**

> This was just an excuse to write porn.

America knew what was in the package the moment he pulled it out of his mailbox. He didn't even have to look at the writing on it to know that it was from England, and the size told him everything he needed to know about the contents. He debated saving it, but he was already too excited and ran upstairs to open it. After mangling the box, he pulled out a DVD case trapped in an unnecessary amount of bubble wrap. England had probably done it as a joke, knowing it would frustrate him and that he wouldn't be able to resist saving it to pop later. But it didn't matter, not when America knew exactly what was on that precious DVD.

He'd gotten it into his head that they should make a sex tape. It would be fun and kinky and they could have it for when things got lonely when they were apart. It would be great. Except for England had shit all over that idea right way. No one ever looked good on those things, he'd argued. It wasn't like regular porn, where everything was set up and well lit and shot from flattering angles and America had had to concede that an amateur wide-shot of them porking would probably not be the most appealing jacking off material. He wasn't sure he wanted to see himself being all sweaty and fat on camera, either. Hearing himself would probably kill it, too. He was only after seeing England.

So then he'd begged England to make a solo video, which England hadn't liked that much better until America had brought up the fact that he'd taken plenty of dirty pictures just because England had asked. Only, America didn't want pictures. He wanted something moving and breathing and alive. England had teased him for lacking imagination, then smirked, which in this case was a good sign, and agreed that he'd come up with something and send it.

 And now it was here.

 It could be anything. England could be doing anything, but whatever it was, it was bound to be sexy and amazing and perfect. America finally got all of the bubble wrap off of the case (and may have popped some of it just for good measure) and opened it. There was nothing but the disc inside. No pictures. No note. Nothing. The disc itself wasn't even labelled. America stripped down to his boxers, grabbed his lap top, situated himself comfortably against the headboard of his bed and popped the disc into the drive.

 It whirred violently a few times, but nothing happened. America felt a nervous disappointment shoot straight into his stomach. Maybe England had done something wrong and the disc was defunct. England wasn't exactly technically savvy- he still relied on America to sync his iPod and it took him forever to text even the simplest of messages- so this entire thing could be a bust.

 Just as America was about to eject the disc and try again, the DVD player window popped up and showed the first frame of the video. It was a shot of the bed in England's guest room. America knew because the headboard was slatted instead of being all one piece and that was the bed they used if they were going to do any kinky tying up kind of stuff. The weird thing was that it was a shot from almost directly above the bed, only showing the top half. He couldn't figure out how England had managed to shoot from that angle, unless he'd rigged something up across the curtain rails on top of the bed. Even more curious, America pressed _play_.

 For almost twenty seconds there was nothing but fuzzy half-noise and the empty bed. Forced to stare at it, America realized that England had put out the fancy sheets and pillowcases. He only used those for when he was trying to be all schmoopy and romantical. They were kind of cheesy. Silky, shiny, a little too pink to be called red- America thought they were pretty gay, even by their standards. He didn't have to contemplate them much further, though, because there was finally some rustling and England came into view. He laid down on the bed primly, giving no acknowledgement of the situation or America other than to look directly into the camera. England didn't look embarrassed or pissed off or like any of the things America had thought he might feel. He looked relaxed. At least, as relaxed as he could look while lying on shiny sheets in a white button down shirt, a tie and slacks. America was tempted to skip ahead, just to see where all of this was headed, but he didn't want to ruin whatever build-up England might have been going for.

 England closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held it in for a few seconds, then let it out through his mouth, lips forming an almost perfect O. After a few more breaths, he started running a hand through his hair, messing it up gently. America was completely transfixed even though England wasn't actually _doing_ anything. It wasn't exactly turning him on, but he couldn't stop watching. England finished messing with his hair, and let his hand flop palm up beside his head on the pillow. He seemed to be concentrating on something now, brows a little furrowed, tongue peeking out to drag across his lower lip. America wondered what he was thinking about, but then England smiled crookedly and slowly opened his eyes to look directly into the camera again, and America thought he might have a faint idea of what was going through his head. Suddenly America could appreciate the weird angle of the camera; it was almost like he was on top of England, and he was the one messing up his hair and making him sigh and smile and look at him like that. England still wasn't actually _doing_ anything, but now it _was_ turning him on.

 Seeming to become self-conscious, England cleared his throat and lowered his eyes, and started to undo his tie. He fumbled a few times, but once he got the knot undone, he pulled it achingly slowly from the collar of his shirt and tossed it aside. He bit his lip and closed his eyes again, working on getting the buttons of his shirt undone, getting faster and more frantic as he got lower. Finally, it was all unbuttoned and untucked and America was eager to see him rip it off and fling it aside. But he didn't. Instead he took in and let out another exaggerated breath and moved his hands to his belt. England looked into the camera again as he pulled the leather through the buckle and and undid the button and zipper of his trousers. America couldn't actually see below his belt, he realized with some irritation, so the sound of the zipper was more of a tease than anything else. It was so quiet, except for England's regimented breathing, that the scrape and clank of metal was almost too loud.

 He didn't remove the belt from its loops or pull off his trousers. Instead he put one hand beneath his belly button, thumb brushing back and forth as if he was considering what to do next. His hand started to wander upward, lifting away as it did until by the time England had traced up to his collar bone, he was only using the feather light touch of his fingertips. His eyes slipped closed involuntarily when he stroked across the bone, and then his hand started to journey downward again. America's breathing sped up a little as he watched each twitch and pulse of England's body as he began to squirm under his own touch. A few more circuits of England's hand and America gave in and stuck his own hand down his boxers. He wasn't hard yet, but the urge to get there soon was powerful.

 England was breathing louder now, head tilted back so America could see the bob of his Adam's Apple every time he swallowed. He brought both hands to the waistband of his slacks and pushed them down barely an inch. Making a soft sound in the back of his throat, he massaged his thumbs along the slight protrusions of his hip bones. That was one of America's favourite things to do to him and America felt his face getting red. England wasn't just touching himself for his own benefit; he was performing, actually catering to what America wanted. He was recreating their intimate habits, and validating that the things America liked were pleasurable for him as well.

 Back arching off the bed for an instant, England slipped one hand inside his underwear. His head turned sharply to the side and his mouth hung open in a silent gasp as he indulged himself in stroking his cock. He started to push his underwear away with his free hand, but pulled back suddenly and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. America groaned at seeing him get so close to losing control. It was obvious he had a plan for all of this, and had been just seconds away from throwing it all away. While England was composing himself on the screen, America wiggled out of his boxers and set to touching himself in earnest. It seemed England was having a similar train of thought, and he lifted his hips to pull down his slacks and kick them away. The shirt was taken off more patiently, but still tossed aside, and England was left in only his black boxer briefs.

 In undressing, England had slipped down the bed a few inches, and by the time he'd settled back down, America could only see from just below his bellybutton and up.

 “Move up, dammit”, America growled under his breath as England's left hand wandered south again. But England didn't, and America was only treated to the visible movement of his wrist and arm. England wasn't even touching himself directly, only rubbing over his underwear. Imagining what he couldn't see, America's swallowed thickly and slouched against the headboard. Somehow, England touching himself through his clothes seemed dirtier than if he'd just been naked. They'd had plenty of partially clothed sex, whether because they were being lazy, or the urge had struck suddenly and there hadn't been time to undress, but this was different. He was doing it on purpose, doing it to tease. America decided he probably knew he wasn't totally in view of the camera either, because England looked up again, and then down the length of his body, smirking and shifting just a little lower.

 “Fuck you.” America laughed and went back to imagining as England's focus shifted away from the camera. He wanted to be right there, right between England's legs. He'd leave tiny kisses from knee to inner thigh just so that England would shiver and try to push him away. But America wouldn't let him, and he'd probably bite him just to teach him a lesson before he'd put his mouth right over his clothed cock. America could imagine the texture of fabric and the heat against his tongue, imagine how England would pull at his hair and push the back of his head down so his mouth would be even tighter against the bulge. England was moaning softly on the screen, stomach muscles clenching and releasing as he twisted. America pretended he was the one making him do that, that he was kissing and licking and sucking until everything smelled of spit and sweat and laundry detergent and sex. Maybe he'd make England cum like that, not ever actually touching his cock skin to skin. That idea proved a little too powerful, and America had to slow down his own hand and squeeze beneath the head of his cock to banish the urge to finish.

 It was good timing, too, since England seemed to be becoming increasingly agitated. He was bucking and rolling his hips up every now and then, and used his free hand to pull at his hair and smooth it down. With a grunt, he sat half way up and pulled off his underwear, rolling back and bringing his knees up to pull them off his ankles. He was higher up on the bed again, but not enough for America to see his cock. He caught a glimpse of the head as England got comfortable again, but then England had both hands down there, and he could only see the faint trail of darker hair growing downwards.

 England stroked himself for a couple of beats, but made a face and brought his hands back up. He spit violently into his palms and rubbed them together. It was gross and hot at the same time, and America wondered if that had been part of the plan or if England had genuinely gotten too caught up and forgotten to get something decent to slick himself up with. England went back to touching himself, and America couldn't decide if he like the mental picture of England using both hands to stroke his cock, or of him using one hand to play with his balls better, so he ended up switching back and forth in his head. It was strange to be looking at England masturbating and imagining it at the same time, almost like a split screen inside his own mind. But as America got closer and closer to orgasm, he had trouble maintaining that amount of focus.

 And, really, what England was doing on the screen was better than what America's sex addled brain could come up with. His cheeks and chest were turning pink, almost the colour of the gaudy sheets, and it made the rest of his skin look brighter and paler. Maybe it was just the shitty camera, but he was almost glowing. England shook his head back and forth and pulled his shoulders up with a gasp. He stopped moving for a few moments, then exhaled and resumed his previous pace. England was never all that noisy in bed; mostly he just breathed really loudly and maybe said a few things here and there. But he let out a resonant moan as he let one of his hands abandon his cock in favour of pinching first one nipple, then the other. He seemed to be just moments away from losing it, and America was grateful since it was becoming harder and harder to keep himself from cumming. England hips lifted completely off the bed, and America could finally see him pumping his cock at a wicked pace. It was short-lived, though, as England forced his hips back down and clenched his free hand against his stomach, fingertips digging into firm, milky skin. 

His head rolled back again, and America thought England had cum. America was about to let go himself, but England made a weird noise and it distracted him. He made the noise again, louder this time, and America could have sworn he was saying “Al”. England shivered and looked lost for a second until his eyes found the camera again, and made the noise a third time. America was sure it was is name this time, but England couldn't get it all the way out before he came. He made a valiant effort to keep his eyes open and on the camera through his orgasm, face going red as he made an almost pained expression and then relaxed.

America backtracked the video to watch and hear England cum twice before he finished himself off. He bit his lip to keep from making any noise. It seemed weird to be moaning his head off if no one else was around, and England had been mostly quiet. He didn't want to ruin the mood, as stupid as that seemed. He let the video play through, watching as England recovered his breath and the flush on his cheeks and chest slowly started to fade away. England looked back up and the camera and then down at himself and laughed. He ran his clean hand through his hair, the biggest shit-eating grin America had ever seen him pull lighting up his face.

 England brought up his other hand and looked at the palm and made an exaggerated expression of disgust and laughed again as he held it up for the camera. He sloppily wiped the cum on his hand on the sheets and laced his fingers together over his stomach. Sighing contentedly, he looked up at the camera one last time, and cleared his throat.

  _"Love you.”_ He smiled just a little bit, but it wasn't completely happy. America knew that face all too well. It was the “I miss you but I'm not going to say so” face that he got at airports and meetings and on video chat. The video ended there, no further messages or fading out, just a final frame of England post-orgasm with his “I miss you” face.

 America felt that as well, low in his stomach where desire had been only minutes before. As amazing as the experience had been, it didn't hold up to the real thing. It helped, but it wasn't the same. He wallowed in thought for a few minutes, debating whether he should call England even though it would be late at night over there. What was he supposed to say, though? Telling England he missed him wasn't going to help anything. He could tell him he loved him, but he told him that all the time. England had done more than that. He'd shown America that he cared, even it was through a silly home-made porno. He'd done something totally for and because of America, something intimate and vulnerable and honest.

 Finally, America got off his bed, cleaned himself up and put the DVD away. He straightened up his bedcovers and moved some lamps around before nodding to himself and going off in search of his video camera. He was going to show England exactly how much he missed him.  

 


End file.
